A Merry Meeting
by Citrine
Summary: Short, mildly humorous gapfiller: While Frodo is in the Hall of Fire, Merry and Pip entertain themselves, and meet a certain Elf...


Rivendell was a kindly and beautiful place, just as Old Bilbo's tales had described it: Gardens and trees, and Elves everywhere with the starlight in their eyes, and always the distant song of wind and flowing water. But it felt a bit too grand for Merry and Pippin. Though every door in the Last Homely House was open to them as the Ringbearer's companions, they had barely peeked into the Hall of Fire. It was filled with firelight and music, and the sights and sounds and smell of Elves, and Frodo was there among them. He seemed to belong there somehow, in a way that they did not, and so they had turned away, wandering up and down the lamp-lit halls, feeling rustic and small, and more than a little homesick.

They found themselves at last on a small balcony overlooking a steep ravine. The air was crisp and the stars were bright overhead. Pippin rested his chin on the wooden railing and looked down at the glint of water far below. Merry sat farther away, in a low chair against the wall-the view made him dizzy-and smoked his pipe.

Pippin sighed. "Fancy a game of draughts?"

Merry blew a smoke-ring, poked his finger through it and made a wish. "Not really."

"Bite to eat?"

"Certainly. But we've already tried that." Earlier in the evening they had feasted like kings, so it was more out of a hobbit need for something to nibble, rather than hunger, that they had attempted a raid on the kitchen. Unfortunately, they found that Elves built their larder shelves very high indeed, far out of the reach of even the most able hobbit. A hasty search of the kitchen for a stool or chair had resulted in their removal by a very tall and motherly Elf-woman, who spoke not a word of Westron, and so misread their urgent hand-signs and directed them to the nearest privy.

"Another pipe then?" Pippin said, and there was the merest hint of irritation in his tone. Merry was not being very helpful.

Merry withdrew the stem of his pipe from his mouth, turned it over, and rapped the bowl sharply on the railing, sending the last of his Old Toby down to join the mulch of wet leaves below the balcony. "No, I believe one is enough tonight." He tucked the pipe into the pocket of his coat, stood up and stretched, yawning fit to crack his jaw. "I think I shall stagger upstairs to bed. You may hang about and wait to see Frodo, if you like, but I imagine he'll be in the Hall until the wee hours. Elves will go on talking and singing all night, you know."

Pippin sighed again, and made a face. He doodled a bit on the dew-damp rail with one finger, then he paused. He had a speculative look in his eye, a Tookish sort of look. "I know what we can do."

"Sleep?" Merry said hopefully.

Pippin laughed delightedly. "Dear old Merry! Sometimes you are such an old stick. We've got plenty of time to sleep, and this should be ever so much more fun."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Merry said.

They stood before the grand staircase that led to the upper floors of Elrond's house. It was a lovely and graceful thing, as were all things made by Elvish hands, but out of scale for hobbit legs. Each riser of golden, polished wood was higher than they could step comfortably, and poor Sam made his up and down them every morning, panting and puffing, his face turning red, often with fear in his eyes and a loaded tray in his hands, or otherwise clutching the banister as if it were going to throw him off into space.

"Here we are," Pippin said.

"Mm," Merry said cautiously, trying to be as vague in assent as possible, since he might be agreeing with something he didn't want to agree with. "And?"

Pippin was shrugging off his coat. "Here, hold this." He rubbed his hands together eagerly and started up the steps. "I've wanted to do this for days, but I didn't dare. There was always someone about, and Frodo was so terribly sick, it just didn't seem right to think of doing something so silly." As he talked he continued up. "And I mean, it's not as though I've never seen a staircase before. There are stairs in the Great Smials at Tuckborough, you know, though not as big and tall as this, or with a banister so smooth." He paused to run his small hand over the glossy surface. "Smooth as glass! The Elves must polish it with beeswax every day!"

Merry had an idea what Pippin was about to do. "Pippin, someone will see! Come down at once!"

Pippin ignored him, a skill acquired through many long years of practice. "And I wondered what would happen if I threw my leg over it-" (Here Pippin, with a heave and a grunt, hoisted himself up and sat a-straddle of the banister.) "-just so." He was facing backward and looked over his shoulder at Merry, down below. "Now there's no knob at the end to stop me flying off, so you shall have to catch me."

"Catch you!" Merry spluttered, dropping Pippin's coat on the floor, and just in time, too: Pippin threw up his hands with a whoop and started to slide. "Pippin!"

ippin built up an alarming amount of speed, but Merry leaped forward with his arms outstretched just as he came to the end of his short, but exhilarating trip. They both tumbled to the floor, with Pippin sitting on Merry's stomach.

"Ha ha! That was splendid!" Pippin cried. "Just like flying! You should give it a go, Merry!"

"Weh," Merry agreed breathlessly.

Pippin helped him get up and brushed him off. "There, there, poor old fellow! I didn't mean to fall on you so hard. Anything broken?"

"Just my back," Merry said. "And perhaps my hip." He put his hand in his pocket and an expression of dismay crossed his face. "And my pipe! You owe me a new one for this, my lad."

"I shall give you my best one, just as soon as we get home. But I reckon I slid faster than you would, and from higher up, too-Brandybucks have no head for heights."

Merry knew the sound of a gauntlet slapping into the dust when he heard it. "Hoho, we'll just see about that!"

Merry turned around and began walking upstairs. He was panting a bit as he reached the point where Pippin had started-he was stouter and stockier and more rounded in the stomach than Pippin. He paused and looked down. The floor seemed very far away. Brandybucks in general truly did not care for anything higher than a writing stool or library ladder, and he swallowed hard and looked away. Pippin saw his hesitation and folded his arms across his chest, smirking a bit and raising an eyebrow in challenge. Merry saw his look and set his jaw. He went on doggedly up to the very top, where the stairs ended. Now how did Pippin go about it? A leg up and over, like mounting a very thin, very slippery pony, hands in the air-

Pippin saw it coming before Merry did. Merry's head was spinning and his balance was shot. Instead of sliding he merely toppled, like a bag of flour, over the banister and into empty air. He heard Pippin cry out, and had an unpleasantly long amount of time in which to wonder how hard the floor was, and if he would break anything for real this time, or if would simply land on his head and be done. What a humiliating and childish end for the future Master of Buckland! He closed his eyes tight and braced for impact.

He landed on something firm, but yielding, and there was that scent of Elves again, but different somehow, from the Rivendell Elves, who seemed to smell of sun and grass, and growing things ; it made him think of endless rows of dark trees, and hidden glades, and a cold river running silver under the moon. He opened one eye and found that he was safely in the arms of an unfamiliar fair-haired Elf.

"How do you do?" Merry said politely.

"Quite well, thank you," replied the Elf, obviously highly amused. "And you?"

Merry thought a bit. "Fine."

Pippin was making unhappy noises and jumping up and down, like a hound pup leaping for a bone held out of reach. "Merry! Merry! Are you all right? Hoy, you! Put him down so I can see, if you please!"

The Elf stood Merry on his feet. "I'm quite all right, Pippin. Nothing hurt but my pride, though I might have come off worse if not for mister...?"

The Elf bowed. "Legolas Thranduilion, of the northern realm of Mirkwood."

"Mr. Thranduilion," Merry said. He threw his coattails back and 'made a leg', as his old grandfather Rory had taught him to do in refined company. "Meriadoc Brandybuck, of Buckland in the Shire, at your service."

Legolas laughed. "And I at yours, but we need not be so formal, simply 'Legolas' will do well enough."

Merry gave Pippin a gentle kick in the ankle to remind him of his manners. Pippin's coat was over his arm, so he had no coattails to throw back, and he merely bobbed up and down like a pump handle. "And I'm his cousin Peregrin Took, but you may call me Pippin." His eyes lit up. Pippin had cut his teeth on Bilbo's dashing tales of adventure, though they had been tidied up and softened a bit for his tender ears. "Mirkwood you said? Is that the very same Mirkwood in Cousin Bilbo's stories, with the great Battle of Five Armies, and the dragon, and the Dwarf-halls under the mountain with piles and piles of gold and silver and jewels?"

"The very same, though I have seen no more of gold and jewels than my lordly father keeps within his treasury, and I played so little part in that Battle that I fear I have escaped any mention in story or song." His bright face darkened slightly, and his voice dropped. "And I have had even less to do with Dwarves. They are not particularly welcome in my father's halls, though he has had more dealings with them than others of our kind."

The conversation was taking an unhappy turn, and Merry was sorry to see the shadows creeping into the fair Elf's expression. There were shadows enough around them all these days. He had seemed such a jolly, laughing fellow, and somehow more _earth-bound _than the Elves he had already met, if that made any sense. Here was an Elf that might appreciate the importance of a pint, or a jest, or a good meal. Speaking of which...

Merry glanced at Pippin, and Pippin glanced at Merry, and a quick thought passed between them.

Pippin took hold of Legolas's sleeve, and gave him his most endearing look. "Our cousin Frodo has been terribly ill-though I suppose you know that-and we are thankful that he is on the mend, but all the same we are at loose ends now while he hobnobs with these high-born folk. Merry and I would quite like it if you would walk with us, and tell us some tales of your home and history, if it wouldn't be too much of a bother."

"Not at all," Legolas said, and patted Pippin's hand where it lay on his arm. What charming little folk these hobbits were! His sea-grey eyes twinkled. "And in return, perhaps you might explain how it is that your kinsman fell from the sky and nearly landed upon my head. Is it a peculiarity of Rivendell's climate that it rains hobbits indoors?"

Pippin and Merry both laughed at this, though a rosy blush crept into Merry's face. If Frodo got wind of this little episode, he'd never live it down. He cleared his throat. "What say we find a little something to eat, and then we can sit down somewhere under the stars and have a nice chat. How are you at reaching shelves?"

"Quite able, I assure you. Perhaps we can find some wine, as well. In truth, that is the reason I was wandering the halls. I am not weary enough for sleep, and as I am a stranger here, I hoped to find some companions. I am far from home and tomorrow is the council, where much will be decided for good or ill, but for tonight I wished only for laughter and warmth, and friendly voices."

Pippin paused. "So, you were lonely, hungry, and homesick. Are you sure you're not some kind of great, big hobbit?"

Legolas ruffled Pippin's hair, a habit of Big Folk that he usually detested, but coming from this Elf it didn't seem like such an insult. "You may consider me your long-lost relation, if it please you."

"It does," Merry said. He was beginning to grow very fond of this Legolas fellow. He hoped that they all would spend much more time together, and perhaps Frodo would like to meet him as well. "Shall we go then?"

Without any prompting, Legolas grasped Merry's outstretched hand. Pippin latched on to his arm and together they marched, a small but conquering army of hobbits, toward the defenseless pantries of Rivendell.

The end.

This was written for Budgielover, who desperately needed a cheerful hobbit story without cobwebs and shadows. I wore out my featherduster for this one, Budgie;o)

This was also my entry for Marigold's 10th Story Challenge. As always, feel free to check out her website, where there are new LOTR fanfiction recommendations every Friday, and all the previous challenge stories are still available to read. And be sure to keep your eyes peeled for Challenge 11, coming in December!


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